Safe
by Geek for God
Summary: When Steve wakes up in his seven-year old body, the team not only grows closer to each other, but they also learn secrets from Steve's past that he would like to keep hidden. No slash, just bromance.
1. Chapter 1

**This is the plot bunny (a.k.a. Rabbit of Caerbannog) I was talking about in my other story. And, I would like to point out (again) that there is no slash in any of my stories, nor will there ever be. Juuust bromance. **

**Disclaimer: I DON'T OWN ANYTHING.**

When Steve first got hit with the blast of light fired from a robot, he didn't think much of it. Sure, it had stung a little, but it was nothing compared to a bullet shot out of a gun. Besides, he and the rest of the Avengers were just finishing up the battle anyway.

But then, a few hours after they had cleared the streets of the robots they'd been fighting, he'd started to feel a little queasy. And hot.

He explained to the others tiredly that he was going to lie down. Tony looked at him in surprise. "Dude, you're missing shawarma?" It'd become tradition for them to eat the large meat-filled sandwiches after every battle.

Steve just nodded, suddenly too exhausted to say anything else. He dragged himself toward the elevator and, once it had reached the floor containing his room, practically threw himself onto his bed. He was asleep before his head even hit the pillow.

-B-R-E-A-T-H- -O-F- -L-I-F-E-

"Steve!" Someone was pounding on his door.

Steve groaned and burrowed deeper into the blankets. "Go away," he mumbled into his pillow.

Tony ignored him. "We bought five boxes of doughnuts, but Thor's already on the third box. If you don't get your superbutt downstairs in two minutes, you'll have to make your own food." Then he left.

Steve huffed in annoyance. He was, without a doubt, the worst cook of the Avengers. The only one who even came close to his lack of kitchen skills was Natasha. When Tony had said something jokingly about women being natural cooks within earshot of her, Natasha had smiled sweetly and made him breakfast. Tony never said anything about women cooking again.

Deciding to sacrifice more sleep for the promise of a sugary breakfast, he started to raise himself out of bed. And stopped.

His clothes had grown larger overnight. His sleeves were huge and baggy, flopping down over his hands and still leaving about a foot of extra material hanging from where his fingertips ended. His shirt covered his entire body, which was actually a relief, because his pants were now pooled at his feet.

Okay. Weird.

He sat up and looked around. Everything was . . . bigger. Higher up. His legs didn't even touch the floor when he sat at the edge of the bed anymore.

Fear was starting to rise in his chest. _What happened to me?_

He leapt off the bed and dashed to his bathroom, wanting to get a look at himself in the mirror. He frowned. The countertop was really far away. He rolled his sleeves up, which took several minutes, preparing himself for the high jump he was about to make. When he caught sight of his hands, however, he paused. They looked smaller and thinner than he last remembered.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. _Focus,_ he told himself sternly. _You're on a mission._ He giggled out loud, than clapped his hands over his mouth. _What is wrong with you?_ Ignoring his own strange reaction, he jumped up and gripped the edge of the counter. Then he tried to pull himself up, but found that he couldn't. His arms strained with effort. Nothing happened.

_He wasn't super strong anymore._ That thought hit him like a bolt of lightning.

He used his feet to push off of the drawer beneath him and hoist himself up onto the countertop before flopping onto his back, breathing heavily. Even that small endeavor left him tired and out of breath. So not only was he _not_ super-strong, but apparently he was weak, too.

Once he got the proper amount of air back into his lungs, he turned his head.

A seven-year old boy with sandy blonde hair and bright blue eyes was staring straight at him. He had on a huge blue shirt that reached all the way down to his ankles.

Steve's eyes went wide. So did the boy's.

He was looking in a mirror.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own _The Avengers,_ because if I did, there probably wouldn't even be a real plot line. There'd just be a bunch of shirtless dudes sitting around doing nothing. And I would relish in their awesomeness.**

Thor was on his thirty-second doughnut.

It was an understatement to say that the other Avengers were amazed.

Bruce was staring at the thunder god, his mouth gaping open. A piece of the powdery white doughnut in his hand plopped onto his plate, but he didn't seem to notice. Clint had a pen in his hand and was marking another tally mark next to the thirty-one others on a napkin. Natasha had stopped cleaning her knives and was instead gazing at the Asgardian with wide eyes. Her reaction was equal to a grown man screaming in anticipation. Which was exactly what Tony was. "Another one! Another one!"

Thor frowned, or at least tried to. It was hard when his cheeks were stuffed with gooey goodness. "But what about Steve Rogers?" he mumbled around the food in his mouth.

Tony waved his hand dismissively. "Said he wasn't hungry. Now eat! Eat!"

Thor shrugged. "Okay." He reached for another doughnut with chocolate icing and sprinkles. "These are my favorite," he said happily.

As Thor shoved the entire thing in his mouth, Bruce had to look away. "That is . . . that is disgusting, Thor."

Clint grinned and nudged the scientist, having already marked down the thirty-third tally. "You're looking a little green, there, Banner." Then he laughed uproariously at his own joke.

Bruce did not seem to appreciate his genius. "Very funny," he said sarcastically, putting down his half-eaten doughnut.

Suddenly Tony's eyes got an almost manic gleam to them. "I have a great idea," he said slowly.

Natasha rolled her eyes. If she had a nickel for every time she'd heard that from the infamous Tony Stark and then something had gone wrong . . . .

"What if we had a doughnut eating contest between Thor and Hulk?" Tony looked like a kid on Christmas morning.

"NO." Natasha and Bruce both voiced their opinion at the same time.

Tony was crestfallen. Then he brightened again. "What if -"

"NO."

"Killjoys," Tony muttered under his breath.

JARVIS began speaking. "Sir, I believe you have an intruder in the building."

Tony frowned. "What? That's not possible. No one can get past my security."

"Sir, I _am_ your security. And I assure you nothing went in or out of this building, but there is an intruder in Mr. Rogers' room. And Mr. Rogers himself seems to have disappeared."

Tony shook his head. "No way. I talked to him this morning."

Natasha was glaring at the billionaire. "You monitor our rooms?"

"That's not creepy," Clint muttered past the doughnut packed in his mouth.

"How long has the intruder been here?" Tony ignored the others.

There was a pause before the computer spoke. "I'm not entirely sure, sir. I would guess he arrived sometime last night."

Tony put his face in his hands. "You're a computer, JARVIS. You're not supposed to _guess,_ you're supposed to _know._ And," he continued, already on his way to the elevator, "why wasn't I alerted last night?"

"Because, sir, I was not aware of it until one point forty-three minutes ago," JARVIS replied.

Tony mumbled something under his breath as Bruce got into the elevator with him. He pressed the button that would take them to the floor Steve's room was on. "You don't have to come, you know," Tony pointed out to Bruce. "JARVIS is probably just malfunctioning."

Bruce shrugged. "It can't hurt to be careful. And, uh," he grimaced, "I think my breakfast would have ended up on the floor if I had seen Thor eat anything else."

Tony chuckled. "Man, was that entertaining. How many more do you think he can eat before he explodes?"

The scientist rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes. "Tony, I'd rather not think about doughnuts . . . ever."

The elevator came to a stop. Tony and Bruce stepped out while Tony said, "JARVIS, is the intruder armed?"

Bruce glared at him. "I thought you said JARVIS was malfunctioning," he whispered fiercely.

"I thought you said it wouldn't hurt to be careful," Tony shot back.

"No, sir," JARVIS said. "The intruder is not armed."

The two geniuses stood outside of Steve's door.

"Steve," Tony yelled, banging on the door_. _"I came to make sure you're not dead."

Silence.

"Steve," Tony tried again, but still got no response. He traded a look with Bruce, who raised his eyebrows in a _What now?_ gesture.

"Steve?" Tony sighed in annoyance when no one answered. "Okay, I'm coming in. You better not be so much as half-naked or I _will_ sic Hulk on you." Then he told JARVIS to unlock the door for him.

Bruce stared incredulously at him. "You can unlock our _bedroom doors?_"

Tony opened the door, peering around at the room, choosing to ignore the scientist. The bathroom door was wide open, and Tony could hear someone shuffling around in there. He turned back to Bruce and put a finger to his lips. "Bathroom," he whispered.

Bruce gave him an affronted look. "I'm not going into the bathroom with you, Tony," he hissed quietly.

Tony rolled his eyes. "No, Einstein, I mean someone's in the bathroom."

"Oh."

"On the count of three, we rush in," Tony told him.

Bruce nodded.

"One," Tony began. Then he snickered. "I feel so cool," he informed Bruce. "Like those people on _Law and Order_ or something."

Bruce put his face in his hands. "Focus, Tony."

"Right, right." Tony took a deep breath. "Two."

He waited a beat. "Three!"

He charged into the bathroom while Bruce walked nonchalantly behind him. Once Bruce got there, though, his mouth dropped open for the second time in less than ten minutes.

A young, blonde boy dressed in one of Steve's large shirts was sitting on the counter, looking dejectedly at the two of them. His blue eyes seemed so familiar . . . . Bruce shook off the nostalgia and tried to look comforting. "Hi," he said. "I'm Doctor Banner. What's your name?"

The boy pounded his fist on the countertop, surprising the two men. "Guys, it's me. Steve."

Tony snorted in laughter. "Ha ha. Real funny, kid. Now answer the question. Who are you?"

The child stood up, the shirt dropping to his ankles. He pointed a pale finger at Tony. "I just told you! I'm Steve Rogers. Captain America. Cap. Whatever you guys call me behind my back because," he narrowed his eyes, "I know you do it, Stark. I'm not as deaf as you think."

Tony's eyes grew comically wide. "No. Freaking. Way," he breathed. "Cap?"

The boy nodded.

There were a few moments of silence before Bruce finally said, "Well. This is different."

**A/N: I am so, incredibly sorry, but this week I will be separated from technology of any kind, so I won't be able to update or anything. Soorrrryy. Still love and thank everyone who reviewed.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Haha you guys are so lucky I managed to post this today. Or . . . maybe not lucky. *shrugs* I'm not totally sure yet. I guess I'll figure it out in your reviews lol. This chapter seems super random (honestly, the whole idea is pretty random), but it actually plays a major part later on. And personally, I liked the second chapter better. So. We'll see. **

**Thanks for all of your reviews. You guys are so great. Oh, and, shout out to Dairi, just 'cause. **

**Disclaimer: If I owned Marvel, I would probably get sued for terrible plot lines. So maybe it's not such a bad thing that I _don't_ own it . . . . **

The Avengers were all gathered around the kitchen table again, except this time the focus of their attention was not a doughnut-eating fiend, but their seven-year old leader.

Steve felt goofy in his extremely over-sized clothes, but at least he was wearing pants now. He'd grabbed a pair of his own pants and a belt, creating an extra hole in the latter so it would actually fit around his waist. Somewhat.

"Are you sure this is Cap?" Clint asked dubiously.

Bruce nodded. "That's why JARVIS took so long to realize Steve was 'missing'. Little Steve still has the same DNA code as older Steve, so JARVIS didn't recognize the change at first."

Clint leaned forward and stared into Steve's bright eyes. "Prove it."

Steve grinned toothily and took a deep breath before saying in a high, falsetto voice, "'Papa, Papa, please don't go! I'll say anything you want! Anything!'"

Clint's face turned red with . . . embarrassment? "Okay, I believe you! Just don't say anything about . . . _ahem_ . . . about that."

Tony raised an eyebrow. "What's so special about him quoting _The Patriot_?"

Clint refused to make eye contact with any of the other Avengers. "Uh, nothing."

Bruce quickly intervened, knowing that Tony would pursue Clint until he either gave up the secret or had a heart attack and died. "I've already taken blood samples of Steve, and over the next few days I'll be running tests on them to figure out how to get him back to normal. But, like I said, it'll take a few days, so the first thing you guys will have to do is get Steve some clothes."

Clint almost sighed in relief when Tony rounded on Bruce, temporarily forgetting about Clint and his secrets. "What do you mean, 'you guys'?"

Bruce smiled. "I obviously don't have time to help with that, seeing as I'm working on the cure."

Tony narrowed his eyes at the scientist. "You planned this, didn't you?"

"That's irrelevant. The point is, one of you is going to have to take Steve shopping," Bruce said, directing his words at the rest of his teammates.

Everyone's eyes landed on Natasha, who instantly began shaking her head. "Nope, sorry, I don't do kids."

Steve stamped his foot in frustration. "I'm not a kid!" he whined. Then he suddenly stopped and covered his mouth with his hands, looking at the others with wide eyes. "I swear, that wasn't me."

Bruce stepped in. "It appears, from what I've discovered so far, that Steve will tend to have some child-like tendencies, even though his mind is still adult Steve's."

As everyone processed this information, Tony turned to Natasha. "What about maternal instincts and all that crap?"

Natasha shot him a look that would have killed a lesser ego-inflated man. "Don't have them."

Tony opened his mouth to tell her that that was a ridiculous thing to say, but Thor spoke first. "I will take young Steve Rogers to purchase some clothing items."

Clint laid a hand on the thunder god's arm. "That's really nice of you to offer, Thor, but I think the job's already taken." He swiveled his head toward Tony, smiling wolfishly.

Tony held up his hands in a defensive position. "Woah, now, tiger. I never agreed to this."

"I need clothes," Steve said flatly, his little hands on his little hips.

"Listen," Tony began, "I'm just not a huge fan of shopping. And I really thin-"

Steve's small voice interrupted him. "Please?"

Tony looked down and saw Steve's huge, pleading blue eyes staring up at him through his blonde bangs. _Dang. Were his eyes that blue when he was an adult?_ Then his mouth was moving before his brain had time to stop it. "Fine."

-J-A-B-B-E-R-W-O-C-K-Y-

"Shopping" wasn't quite the word most people would use for what Steve and Tony did.

Unless they counted the two buying the first thing that looked like it was about the younger one's size and throwing it in a cart as "shopping".

"Ooh, look at this one." Tony's voice drifted through the seemingly endless mass of children's clothing.

Steve turned his head to see the billionaire holding up a blue shirt that said in block letters, "Daddy's Little Boy."

Steve just rolled his eyes and continued grabbing shirts at random, hoping Tony hadn't see him wince when he'd seen the shirt. _Daddy's little boy . . . oh, the irony._

When he felt like he had enough clothes to last him for a week, he walked back to Tony and placed them all in the cart. "I think we have enough."

Tony agreed and headed toward the checkout desk, Steve jogging next to him. Before they reached the desk, though, a camera shutter clicked. Tony was used to the noise, being super famous and all, but Steve whirled around at the sound, his hand subconsciously gripping Tony's. Tony stared down at the small hand in distaste and pried his fingers loose, but only after the camera went off five more times.

"Tony Stark!" a high, excited voice exclaimed.

Tony glanced to his right to see a young male holding a large camera up and pointing it at him. "Is that your son?"

Tony gave a fake laugh and ruffled Steve's hair. Steve frowned at the contact and instantly pulled away from him. "No, he's not my son. I don't have any children."

-A-N-N-I-E- -A-R-E- -Y-O-U- -O-K-A-Y-?-

**Does Tony Stark Have a Son?**

Below the headline was a picture of the dark-haired billionaire holding a blonde boy's hand and a smaller subtitle that asked, "Who is the Mother?"

Bruce set the newspaper down and laughed out loud. "Go figure," he murmured, sipping his coffee.


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm back, dudes. For better or for worse, I'm not sure yet. Let me just say it was a total bummer leaving New York City and going back to . . . (drum roll) Indiana. Possibly the most boring state in the history of the universe, Doctor Who universe included.**

**Anyways, thank y'all for your amazing reviews. It's nice to know that some people appreciate this story lol.**

**Disclaimer: I may not own Marvel YET, but once I become a billionaire I'm buying it. Just a heads up. **

Clint glared at the man sitting across from him. "I don't see why you can't just tell people this. It's not like it's going to soil your reputation any more."

Tony sighed and rubbed his temples. They'd been talking about this for at least half an hour and had started right after Steve went to bed. At seven o'clock. The kid had to be crazy. "Clint, I'm not telling the press that you're my son's uncle."

Clint threw his hands up. "Why not? I can be the cool uncle that every kid wants to be like AND a freaking awesome role model."

"Because," Tony said, for probably the fiftieth time, "Steve is not my son."

Clint muttered something under his breath. "I _know_. But the rest of the world _doesn't._"

"Barton. I'm not changing my mind."

Clint huffed, but was prevented from saying anything further when Tony's cell phone rang. Tony, grateful for the distraction, instantly flipped it open. "You have just reached the number one superhero of America, how can I help you?"

"How can _you_ help _me_?"

Tony winced, suddenly not-so-grateful for the distraction. Nick Fury sounded angry. But then again, when did he not? "Uh, yes, that is what I asked."

"Okay, then," Fury started, "explain to me this: _W__hen_ did you get a kid?"

Tony sighed. "Listen, it's not what you think. I ju-"

Fury interrupted him, his loud voice drowning out the billionaire's. "I don't _care_ if it's not what I think. It's about what the _public _thinks, Stark. And right now it thinks that you are a father. I don't care if that kid really _is_ your son. He has to go. No one wants to rely on a hero who has a family to care for. It makes you look weak."

Tony ground his teeth. He couldn't give Steve up for a number of reasons. First and foremost, he was Captain America. Not that he was planning on telling Fury that anytime soon. Secondly, where else could the kid go? "He can't just 'go', Fury. He's got no one else."

"I don't give a crap, Stark. If he's not gone by tomorrow night, I'm coming over to get him." Then he hung up.

Tony felt the need to chuck his phone across the room. So he did. It hit the wall with a crash and landed on the carpet, unhurt, with a thud.

Clint gazed at the abused cell phone for a few seconds before turning to Tony. "Um . . . do I want to know?"

Tony was visibly seething. "Fury wants me to get rid of Steve. The black pirate says he's bad for my reputation." Then he slammed his fist on the table. "He's taking him tomorrow night."

Clint's eyes narrowed. "Does he know he's Captain America?"

Tony shook his head.

Clint whistled. "Well, are you planning on filling him in on that little detail?"

"I don't see why I should. Bruce is only a few days away from making the cure, and if we tell Fury that the leader of the Avengers is now a seven-year old child, he'll freak." Tony frowned. "And probably run a gazillion tests on Steve," he added as what he hoped sounded like an afterthought. He didn't want to admit that that was one of the main reasons he wasn't telling Nick Fury about his supposed son being Captain America.

Clint's voice broke into his thoughts. "So how are we stopping Fury?"

Tony found the insane urge to laugh. The question wasn't, "_Are_ we stopping Fury?", it was "_How_?" "I don't know. We'll figure it out tomorrow."

-S-L-O-W- -F-A-D-E-

That night, Tony lay in his bed, his mind whirling as he tried to think of ways to prevent Fury from taking Steve. He could tell him that the kid was actually a genius and helping him with some top-secret stuff. Or maybe that he was another superhero with the ability to . . . uh . . . think like an adult. _Idiot,_ he chastised himself. If he could just find a way to get Fury to _like_ Steve . . . .

"Sir," JARVIS said, startling Tony. "There seems to be a disturbance in Mr. Rogers' room."

Tony groaned. "What kind of disturbance?"

"He seems to be throwing objects around his room and talking to himself, sir."

Normally, Tony would just ignore something like that. Who was he to interfere with one of his fellow teammates' temper tantrums? But this was not normal. Said teammate was a seven-year old kid.

"'Kay," he said to no one in particular, getting out of bed. "This better be worth it," he muttered under his breath as he exited his room and stepped into the elevator. Once it stopped at Steve's floor, he warily looked around and made his way toward the Captain's room. As he got closer, he heard what sounded like sobs coming from the room. Quickening his pace, he reached the door and quietly opened it. "Steve?"

"Please," a little voice begged. "Don't."

Alarmed, Tony threw open the door and charged into the room. Steve was curled up in a ball in the corner of his bed, his eyes squeezed shut while tears flooded down his cheeks.

Tony took another look around the room, making sure there wasn't someone hidden in the shadows. Once he was positive he and Steve were the only ones in there, he cast a questioning glance in the smaller one's direction. He didn't understand what he was having a panic attack for. "Cap."

Steve took a shuddering breath, his eyes still shut. "No," he moaned.

Tony took a hesitant step forward, not knowing what to do. "Hey, Steve."

Steve seemed to curl in on himself even more, causing him to look extremely small and vulnerable. "Please, Daddy. I'll be a good boy, I promise," he said through his tears.

_Oh._ The realization hit Tony like a freight train. He was stuck in the throes of a nightmare.

Tony crossed the distance between them and crouched down in front of the boy. "I need you to open your eyes, Steve."

Steve was shaking his head vehemently. "I'm sorry, Daddy, I'm sorry." Sobs wracked his body. "I'll be a good boy."

"Steve," Tony said, trying to sound calm. "Wake up." He reached out and grabbed Steve's arm.

Bad idea.

Steve jerked away from his hand, acting as though he'd been shocked, then made a high, keening noise in the back of his throat. "Don't hurt me," he whimpered.

Tony didn't know what came over him, but suddenly he hated the kid's tears. He hated the thing that had caused those tears. And he hated the fact that he couldn't do anything about it.

Another quiet plea caught his attention and nearly broke his heart. "Help me."

Okay, it was obvious that Steve wasn't going to wake up anytime soon. But Tony wouldn't – couldn't – let the kid spend the whole night trapped in the terror-filled nightmare.

Tony tentatively extended his arms toward the boy again. He didn't necessarily like children, and he especially didn't know how to deal with them.

So. An experiment.

This could be interesting.

He gently took hold of Steve's shoulders and pulled the kid closer to himself. Steve instantly stiffened at his touch, his whole body growing rigid. Tony ignored the movement (or lack of) and drew him into a hug, pressing the tear-streaked face against his chest.

Every fiber in Tony's being was telling him to _stop this_ because he was turning into a big pansy and it was totally awkward, but something else inside of him couldn't bear the thought of letting the seven-year old go.

Steve remained in his rock-like position for a few seconds before he finally relaxed into the billionaire's embrace. His breathing slowed until he was no longer gasping for air and his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.

_Finally,_ Tony thought, relieved. _I can get back to bed._

Five minutes later found the dark-haired man snoring and leaning against the wall by Steve's bed while Steve used his chest as a pillow, both of them sound asleep.

**A/N: PLEASE do me a favor and don't interpret this as anything more than a father-son bond. It's not slash or a gross man-boy relationship. BECAUSE BROMANCE IS BEAUTIFUL.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Again, thanks for all the reviews. :) I honestly don't think you guys realize how amazingly GIDDY I get when I read a good review lol. I basically got giddy for every single review.**

**And, I just want to tell all of you dedicated readers (thanks, again!) about this book I'm reading right now. It's _The Hero's Guide to Saving Your Kingdom_ by Christopher Healy. It's basically about all of the Prince Charmings in all of the princess stories. It's hilarious! I love it!**

**Sorry. You can get back to the story now.**

**Disclaimer: I'm as close to owning Marvel and its characters as I am to being mature. So no, I'm not extremely close.**

Steve slowly awoke, his eyes still closed as he entered the twilight realm of sleep and not-sleep. He was in no hurry to fully awake, because he was _really_ comfortable in the position he was currently in.

Suddenly an involuntary shudder passed through him as he remembered the dream he'd had last night. Well, not so much of a dream as a memory. He remembered that day like it was yesterday, which made him angry. He thought that he'd gotten _past_ his childhood. He thought that he'd put all of this _behind _him. It should not be affecting him anymore.

And yet, here he was. Shaking like a leaf in a windstorm at the _thought _of . . . him.

Before he could stop his train of thought, he was reliving the nightmare all over again.

_From his place in the living room, he could hear his father walk through the front door, so drunk he couldn't even walk in a straight line. He didn't deduce that from the curses and hiccups that fell out of his mouth every time he crashed into something, or even the way his feet dragged on the floor._

_ No, he knew his father was drunk because this was routine. This was his life. He honestly couldn't remember a moment in his life when his father _hadn't _been__ drunk._

_ That did not mean he enjoyed it. He simply tolerated it – expected it. _

_ "Steve!"_

_ He knew from experience that the longer he waited to answer his father's call, the longer the beatings would last in the not-so-far off future. "Yes, sir?"_

_ "Do you know who I talked to today?" the man said in a surprisingly soft voice._

_ Steve's heart sank. These days were the worst._

_ He knew he had to play along, even though he already knew who he'd talked to. "No, sir. Who did you talk to?" _

_ His father stumbled into the living room, his dark eyes wild and bloodshot with alcohol. "I talked to your mother, boy." He took a menacing step in his son's direction._

_ Steve shrank back into a corner, trying to hide his fear. His father didn't like it when he showed fear. _

_ "And do you know what she told me?"_

_ Steve shook his head frantically, but he knew. She said the same thing every time._

_ "She told me that you were a bad boy. She told me that you should be punished." Faster than an intoxicated man should be able to, the man crossed the distance between him and his son and raised a clenched fist._

_ Tears rolled down Steve's cheeks. "Please, don't," he begged._

_ The man ignored the blonde child and slammed his fist into the boy's stomach._

_ "No," the word squeezed out of his throat, along with most of the air in his lungs._

_ His father didn't hear the voice over his loud ramblings, not that it would have made any difference. "How many times have I told you to be a good son? You know your mother doesn't like it when you misbehave!"_

_ The blows rained down on his unprotected body hard and fast. "Please, Daddy, I'll be a good boy, I promise!"_

_ He was ignored, yet again. _

_ "I'm sorry, Daddy, I'm sorry!" His head whipped to the side as a fist connected with it. "I'll be a good boy!"_

_ Apparently some of his words had reached his father. He reached down and gripped the boy's thin arm in a vice-like grip, digging his fingers into his skin. Then he leaned in close. "You will never be a good boy. You think anyone will love you after what you've done?"_

_ He'd been told this so many times, and yet it never failed to break his heart every single time. He was a terrible person. He was a bad boy._

_ His father poked a finger in his chest, and the smell of alcohol washed over his face as he opened his mouth again. "You killed her. It was your fault."_

_ He knew it was his fault. He knew he was a murderer. He just really wished he wasn't. "Don't hurt me," he pleaded._

_ His father threw his battered body to the ground, his eyes full of contempt. "You're pathetic," he hissed before heading into his own room and collapsing on his bed._

_ Steve lay in that position, curled up in a ball, for several hours. His mom had died over six years ago. He didn't remember her, but his father always told him that he was the reason she died. He had killed her._

_ Eventually, the sobs died off, and the house became still and silent. So anyone who happened to be standing near the door would've been able to hear the boy's quiet words. "Help me."_

Steve shook his head, trying to clear his mind of that day. That had happened over seventy years ago. No point in dwelling on it and throwing a pity party for himself.

He yawned and was about to sit up when the surprisingly warm pillow he was laying on _moved._

Steve bolted upright and whirled around, but his movements were so fast that his small feet got entangled in the blankets. He pitched forward and started to tumble off the bed. Reacting quickly, he grabbed the first thing his fingers came in contact with to try and stop his fall.

Unfortunately, the first thing his fingers came in contact with turned out to be someone's hair.

There was an unmanly yelp just before Steve, the blankets, and something large and _alive_ crashed onto the floor.

Steve wiggled out of the blankets and warily approached the thing that was still covered in sheets. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the thing moaned.

He slowly grabbed a corner of the blanket and lifted it up, peeking his blonde head in to see what he was dealing with.

A pair of angry brown eyes met his own.

Steve flipped the blanket back down and started pummeling the thing with his fists.

"Ow!" the thing shouted. "Steve, stop! It's me! Tony!"

Steve punched him again. "I _know _it's you, Stark!"

Tony dug himself out of the blankets, revealing his tousled brown hair that stuck up in all directions. "Then stop hitting me!"

Steve narrowed his eyes and clenched a tiny fist menacingly. "Not until you tell me why I woke up to find _you_ in my bed!"

Tony coughed, color starting to rise in his cheeks. "Um, there is a perfectly logical explanation to this -"

"There'd better be!" Steve shouted as the billionaire scrambled to his feet.

Tony held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Now, Steve, I think you're jumping to conclusions." He shook a finger at the seven-year old, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You have a very dirty mind, Captain Innocence."

That was the final straw. Steve bared his teeth and growled, a disturbing look to see on such a young child. Then he leaped forward and connected with Tony's stomach, tackling the man to the ground.

Steve heard the door behind him open just as he started punching Tony again.

"Steve, we're all -" the person stopped. Then a long, drawn-out sigh was heard. "Tony, what'd you do this time?"

Steve turned his head to look at the speaker without moving from his position on Tony's chest. "Oh, hi, Bruce," he said, giving a small wave.

Tony sat up, causing Steve's little body to tumble to the floor. "Why does everyone always automatically assume it's me?"

"Because," Steve pointed out from his position on the floor, "it _is_ always you."

"Nuh-uh," Tony quickly counteracted. "The pudding-balloon fight was Clint."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "The reason I came up here was to tell Steve that we're meeting in the kitchen. I've discovered some things about his current state. But Tony, since you're here anyway, you are welcome to join us." Bruce held up a hand as Tony opened his mouth. "Steve, you may continue." Then he left.

Tony got up and brushed his pants off, muttering to himself. "Try and do a good deed and it spontaneously combusts in your face. What's up with that?"

Now Steve's curiosity was peaked. "So what were you really doing in my room?" he questioned.

Tony sighed. "JARVIS told me you were freaking out, so I went in your room to check it out. You were, uh," he looked uncomfortable as he continued talking, "having a nightmare. And, you know, I've been there, so I thought I'd try and help you out."

Despite the fury he'd first felt when he realized Tony had spent the night in his room, Steve was suddenly grateful for the billionaire. Growing up, he'd never been comforted (for obvious reasons). And after he became Captain America, there'd never been a reason to comfort him.

Because he was invincible.

Right?

"Er . . . thanks," Steve said, rubbing the back of his neck. What he really wanted to ask was what Tony had heard during his nightmare. _Does he know?_

He'd made it a point not to tell anyone about his abusive childhood. He was pretty sure Bucky had figured it out, but he'd never come out and said anything about it.

Tony gave him a strange glance, looking like he wanted to say something, but instead, he smiled. And not with his usual sarcastic grin. "No problem, kiddo."

After the man left the room, Steve stared hard at the wall opposite of him. "Kiddo?" he asked the empty room. "Did he just call me 'kiddo'?" Tony called him a lot of things: Capsicle, Captain something-or-other, old man, idiot, and many other names. But this was the first nickname that was almost . . . endearing.

He giggled at that thought. Tony being endearing. That was a laugh.

Still . . . he didn't want to admit to anyone that the nickname left a strange feeling in his chest, a feeling he was unused to. Wholeness. Happiness.

It was a good feeling.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks to the people who reviewed. :)**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Marvel, I'd already be a billionaire and living it up somewhere in Hawaii. Seeing as I'm not a billionaire and I don't live in Hawaii . . . I think you can figure out the rest.**

Bruce stood in the center of the living room while the other Avengers sat in a misshapen circle around him. Natasha had claimed the love seat for herself and was sitting in an upright, statue-like position. Thor was taking up more than half of the couch that was supposed to be for three people. Clint was also on said couch, squeezed up against the armrest in an attempt to not get squished by Thor's body.

When Tony and Steve walked into the room, the only available seat left was the armchair. Steve quickly decided that being coddled by the dark-haired billionaire was not on his list of _Things To Do Again. Ever._

Steve immediately plopped himself on the floor and Tony took the armchair, instantly relaxing into the soft material. Steve had to slap his leg a couple times to keep him from dozing off.

Bruce took a deep breath before beginning. "I don't want to get anybody's hopes up. I haven't created the cure yet."

Steve felt his heart deflate a little. He'd thought that was the reason the scientist had called them all in here.

"But I'm definitely closer to making one," Bruce continued. "I know why Steve de-aged while the rest of us didn't. I'm sure you all remember the light beams the robots shot at us a couple days ago?" When everyone nodded, Bruce went on. "Apparently, the beams were made of specially charged neuron particles that, once mixed with the serum in Steve's blood, mutated into . . . well . . ." he gestured in Steve's direction. "That."

Clint leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "Okay, so can you reverse the neur – the thingies?"

Bruce nodded. "It'll take a while, but yes, I can reverse the overall process and, hopefully, change Steve back into a twenty-something year old."

"Well," Tony said, standing up. "That's all fine and dandy, but I've got some bad news. I received a call from a certain one-eyed agent, and he told me that if we don't get rid of Steve by tonight, he's taking the kid himself."

Natasha frowned. "Fury's coming here tonight?"

Tony rolled his eyes. "No, I was talking about the _other_ one-eyed agent."

Thor got a puzzled look on his face. "I was not aware we had met another one-eyed agent."

Tony put his face in his hands before asking, "Who forgot to take Thor to the _Sarcasm 101_ session?"

"There is a session that teaches you about sarcasm?" Thor asked eagerly.

No one answered the thunder god.

"So," Bruce said, "how are you planning on preventing Fury from getting here?"

Tony opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the elevator dinged.

Everyone turned as one to see Nick Fury and three of his buff henchmen pile out of the elevator. Fury's eye instantly landed on Steve, who was staring back at him with an unflinching gaze.

Tony stepped toward the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. "You're early. And I don't recall ever inviting you."

Fury tore his gaze from the seven-year old's and instead looked at the billionaire. "I already knew your answer, Stark, so I thought I'd just pick him up now."

The remaining Avengers not standing stood, their stances telling Fury what their mouths did not: Get out.

The agent ignored the message the movements gave, however, and quickly cast his eye over the people facing him before looking back at the child. "Where's Captain America?"

"Out," Tony said simply, his voice betraying nothing.

Fury raised an eyebrow, obviously not buying the cheap story. Apparently he wasn't in the mood to press the question, though, because he let it slide. "Give me the child."

Steve scowled at the man. He'd never heard of a legal kidnapping before today.

Well. That's assuming that everything Fury did was legal.

"I don't want to go with you," Steve said bluntly, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Fury strode toward the boy before crouching down so they were eye to eye. "I don't care. It's really only a question of how hard your 'father' is going to make it."

Steve refused to take a step back, knowing it would show weakness. But then someone put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back, away from Fury. Steve whipped his head up to snap at the person that he did not appreciate being manhandled and saw Tony step in front of him, his body shielding Steve's.

"You can't have him," the billionaire stated, his tone of voice daring Fury to argue.

Which he did. "And why not?" Fury asked, returning to a standing position.

Thor stepped up on the right of Tony, holding his ever-present hammer in a tight grip. Beside him was Natasha, her eyes glaring at the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Clint was standing on the left of Tony, his right hand gripping something presumably sharp, while Bruce remained by Steve's side, behind the other Avengers.

"Because," Tony said. "He's my son."

Steve's eyes instantly snapped up to look at Tony, but his back was turned and he didn't see the boy's look.

Fury gazed at the wall of superheros in front of him, his one eye narrowed dangerously. Then he sighed. "Fine. You can keep the kid. I'm not stupid enough to go against an army I helped create."

The Avengers didn't move from their positions until Fury and his goons had gotten back in the elevator and the doors had closed.

"All right!" Clint said, pumping his fist. "We stood up to Fury! How sweet is that?"

Natasha looked at him disdainfully. "What are you, five?"

Clint pretended he hadn't heard the female assassin.

Steve wanted to ask Tony what he had meant when he'd said, "He's my son." Conflicting emotions had arisen when he'd heard the simple statement, and he didn't know how to deal with them just yet.

"Okay," Tony said, looking pleased. "We got past Fury. We can take on anything now."

Of course, Tony had a knack for saying the right things at the completely wrong times.

So it really shouldn't have been a surprise to anyone when a gas-dispersing grenade smashed through the window and landed in the center of the room.

**A/N: Um, yes, Bruce is much smarter than little ol' me. So the "specially charged neurons" . . . I don't even really understand what that means myself. It just sounded scientific. And if you feel very strongly about me getting the process to the de-aging thing wrong . . . suck it up. This is my fanfiction, so I can defy the laws of physics as much as I want.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Your reviews are all amazing, I want you to know that.**

**Also, um, I'm starting to realize that this story sounds not-at-all like my summary. So . . . I apologize for that. This idea just wouldn't leave me alone.**

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine. Well . . . the stereotypical bad guys are mine.**

The white smoke filled the room quickly, making it impossible to take a breath of clean air.

"Don't breathe!" Steve commanded, covering his nose with his shirt. He might've been half the size of everyone in the room, but he still took the job of being leader seriously.

The others instantly followed suit, holding their breaths and bringing the collars of their shirts up. But they knew they couldn't keep this up forever.

Tony was the first to make it to the elevator and realize that it and JARVIS weren't working.

Which was dumb, because JARVIS didn't just "not work". That wasn't supposed to happen.

The billionaire banged on the metal doors angrily, frustration clearly written on his face. Their only hope was the stairway, but even that was beginning to fill with gas.

The Avengers were starting toward the stairs when a guttural growl caught their attention. They looked back to see Bruce on his knees, clutching his hair in a futile attempt to stop the "other guy" from emerging.

Clint, being the closest to the scientist, tried to placate him. "It's okay, Bruce. Don't worry. Bruce, listen to me." He flinched as Bruce's torso rippled and began to swell. "We're going to be fine. It's gonna be all right." Unfortunately, Clint had been so focused on calming his teammate down that he'd forgotten about the potentially toxic gas.

In other words, he'd breathed.

He crumpled to the floor without a sound, his body going limp.

Natasha's eyes widened. "No!" she shouted. She tried running toward the archer's body but stopped and swayed on her feet, her eyes half-lidded and glassy. "Clint?" she murmured before she, too, fell to the ground.

Meanwhile, Bruce was slowly losing the mental/physical battle with his other self, growing bigger and greener by the moment. His head jerked up, showing the remaining heroes his bright green, wild eyes.

Thor stumbled forward, his eyelids drooping. He brought up a hand to try and steady himself, but he missed the wall entirely and toppled onto his side, giving the impression of a felled tree.

Steve felt himself growing light-headed even as his lungs screamed for oxygen. Casting a quick glance in Tony's direction, he could see the billionaire wasn't faring much better. Then he remembered what you were supposed to do if you were in a fire. He wasn't quite sure if that applied to this situation, but it was worth a shot. "Get down!" he shouted to Tony as he dropped onto his belly.

Tony complied, gasping for air as soon as he hit the ground. Then, after nearly hacking up his lungs, he caught sight of the person in front of him. "This . . . sucks," Tony commented around coughs as the Hulk loomed out of the white smoke in front of him and Steve.

The beast roared while his massive fist swung through the air, mutilating the armchair in less than two seconds and nearly flattening Steve in the same amount of time. Several pieces of the former chair narrowly missed hitting Steve and Tony.

"Steve," Tony muttered out of the side of his mouth. "We have to get out of here."

Steve didn't hesitate with his reply. "No," he hissed. "We can't leave the others!"

"I don't want to do it, either!" Tony whispered heatedly. "but there's nothing we can do! You're a kid, and I don't have my suit!" By now, the Hulk had destroyed every kind of seat in the room. But it was obvious the gas was starting to affect him as well, because his movements were becoming less coordinated and his eyes had a glazed look in them.

"Look," Tony continued, "the Hulk's almost done, anyway. What do you want to do? Carry them all away?" Then he began coughing again. The next time he spoke, his voice was drowsy. "'Kay, ne'er mind. It got me, too." His eyes started to slide shut, but he forced them to stay open. "Steve, you have to leave. You gotta get . . . out of . . . ." His body went limp.

Steve realized with a start that he was alone. All of his teammates were gone. Or consumed by an angry green monster, but it was basically the same dilemma.

Despite his best efforts to keep them back, he felt tears welling in his eyes. _Stop!_ he commanded himself. _Captain America doesn't cry!_

But that was the problem.

He _wasn't_ Captain America. He was a seven-year old boy who's greatest skill, apparently, was bawling like a baby. He'd never felt so useless in his whole life, pre-serum included. At least then he hadn't been expected to do amazing things like save the world.

He may not be able to help them, but there was no _way_ he was going to abandon his soldiers. There were certain expectations placed on you when you became a captain. And he wasn't about to fail those.

He army-crawled toward Tony, noting with happiness that the filmy white gas was leaving the room, escaping through the large hole in the window.

With the dispersing of the gas came the appearance of Bruce, who was lying in a corner of the room, unconscious and butt-naked.

Steve knew the gas had probably only knocked everyone out, but he placed his fingers against Tony's neck anyway, checking for a pulse. He heaved a sigh of relief when he found one.

His teammates were fine, just unconscious. So now he could focus on a different problem – who threw the grenade in the first place? And what did they hope to achieve by doing it?

His questions were answered sooner than he'd expected.

A thin man clad entirely in black climbed through the window, a pistol in his hand.

Steve instantly shut his eyes, trying to look like he was passed out. Then he cracked his eyes open to slits, wanting to see what the man was going to do.

Men. Another person had climbed through the window, his huge muscles barely making it through the opening.

"They're all out," the first man said, speaking to the microphone in his ear. After a short pause, he nodded curtly. "Yes, sir." Then he looked at his buff partner and gestured in Steve's direction. "Help me with him, will ya?"

Steve tensed, ready to attack the intruders as soon as they got close enough. But they ignored him entirely and headed straight for Tony's body.

The larger man sighed heavily. "Did Boss turn the elevators back on? Because I am _not_ lugging him all the way down the stairs."

The thin one nodded. Then they both bent down to grab the billionaire.

Steve's heart clenched. He couldn't just let them take Tony. So what if he was seven years old? He had the element of surprise on his side.

Not wanting to draw any attention to himself, he slowly curled his fingers around a splintered piece of what used to be the armchair. Quickly deciding that he stood a better chance taking on the thin man, he leaped up and swung the piece of wood at the man's knees.

The thug let out a surprised yelp as his legs buckled out from under him. Steve didn't stop to congratulate himself before he smashed his weapon onto the man's head.

While the unfortunate intruder moaned in pain and clutched his bleeding skull, Steve turned to face the other threat. And saw a meaty fist headed straight for his face.

He ducked, allowing the big man to stumble forward when his hand connected with nothing but air. Then he rammed the piece of wood into the guy's stomach, watching in satisfaction as the man bent forward in pain, his breaths coming out in gasps.

He was about to hit the man again when something collided with his temple. Lights flashed in front of his eyes, the colors exploding in his brain like fireworks. He slumped forward, but someone's arms around his chest prevented him from falling.

_Sorry, Tony,_ he thought as his consciousness started to slip away. _I tried._

-L-I-F-E- -I-N- -T-H-E- -F-A-S-T- -L-A-N-E-

A white-haired, older man dressed in a formal tuxedo sat in a large, out-of-place black van parked directly in front of the Avengers Tower. He tapped his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel as he checked his watch. He scowled when he saw the time.

"Where are you?" he hissed into his earpiece.

"Sorry, Boss," came the instant reply. The speaker sounded out of breath. "We kind of got held up."

The older man sighed in annoyance. "I don't care. You're nearly three minutes late."

Suddenly the side door to the van opened, and he turned to see his two henchmen clamber into the vehicle. The bigger man dropped a body onto the floor while the thinner man threw something to the ground as well.

The white-haired man frowned when he saw blood on the smaller man's forehead. "What happened? I thought you said they were all knocked out." Then he saw that the object he'd brought into the van was the blonde seven-year old. His eyes narrowed and he growled, "Why did you bring the child? I said I only wanted Stark!"

The smaller man refused to meet his boss's gaze. "Well, we thought everyone was out, but when me and Ray -"

"Ray and I," the older man corrected, then motioned for the other to continue.

"Er, when Ray and I started to pick up the rich guy, this kid jumped up and started beating us up!" His voice turned whiny. "So what was we supposed -"

The white-haired man rolled his eyes. "What _were_ we."

"What _were_ we supposed to do? He'd already seen our faces, and we can't leave no witnesses!"

The boss put his head in his hands. "_Any,_ you numbskull. _Any _witnesses. How did a _child_ manage to attack you?"

The bigger guy, Ray, jumped into the conversation. "He had a stick."

There were a few seconds of silence before the boss finally said, "Forget I asked." Then his pale green eyes brightened, and a smile started to tug at his lips. "Actually, bringing the kid might not be such a bad idea." He turned his gaze to the unconscious billionaire. "In case Tony Stark needs a little . . . _incentive_ to do what I want."


	8. Chapter 8

**Hahaha I laughed out loud when I read your reviews.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own _The Avengers._ Or _Star Wars._ Or the world.  
Yet.**

Tony awoke with a bitter taste in his mouth and a slight headache. He opened his eyes only to squeeze them shut again as bright, merciless light seemed to burn off his corneas. The next time he opened his eyes, he did so slowly, allowing them to get used to the blinding fluorescent light above him. Then he sat up in the unfamiliar bed he was in, his gaze flitting around the room. The walls were a depressing, melancholy white and there were no windows or doors, but those details were not the first to grab his attention. The thing about the room that interested him – or maybe even perturbed him – was the fact that tables were set up everywhere, their surfaces covered in metal pieces and tools.

Tony felt a strong sense of deja vu, suddenly remembering his time as a prisoner in Afghanistan. He'd rather not have a repeat of those events.

_Think_, he told himself silently. _How did you get here?_ No matter how hard he pushed his brain, the last thing he could remember was the smoke bomb taking out the Avengers one by one.

Which begged the question – where were his teammates? He assumed they were being held in cells similar to his own, but he couldn't be positive about that until he saw them. Or asked the dude who'd put him in here.

Suddenly a crackling noise filled the room. "Ah, good to see you're awake," a voice said after the noise faded.

Tony whipped his head around, recognizing the sound of a speaker and trying to locate it.

The voice chuckled. "I've hidden the speaker and cameras very well, Mr. Stark. You won't be able to find them."

Tony couldn't help but retort, "What, couldn't get enough of this smokin' hot body on the TV screen?"

The voice ignored his comment. "I'm sure you're wondering why I've brought you here."

Tony stood up. "Actually, I'd like to know what you've done to my teammates."

The voice sounded surprised when it spoke next. "What happened to you, Mr. Stark? Actually thinking about someone besides yourself? The Avengers must be making you soft."

Tony shrugged off the biting jab, not wanting the person to know that he'd hit a sore spot. "Where are they?" he repeated.

"Don't worry, Mr. Stark. They're still at that ridiculous tower you built, unharmed."

"Believe it or not," Tony drawled, clasping his hands behind his back as he paced the room, "your word doesn't comfort me all that much."

The voice appeared to be unconcerned with the billionaire's dilemma. "Well, my word is all you're going to get. Now that we've gotten to know each other better, I will give my instructions to you."

"Wait, what instructions?" Tony asked. When no one responded, he tried again. "Like, for making cookies? Because I'm warning you now, I _suck_ at baking. I can make a mean bowl of Mac 'n Cheese, but anything that requires more effort than that is beyond my expertise."

A door that wasn't there two seconds ago slid open, and a white-haired man in a tuxedo stepped into the room. "These instructions have nothing to do with food, I assure you," he said while a larger man with ginormous muscles and a tiny head followed him into the room.

Tony spread his hands out as the door slid closed, enclosing the three of them in the room. "No weapons? Aren't you afraid I'll use my ninja skills to take both of you out?"

The white-haired man laughed. "Ray has weapons, but he's more than capable without them."

Ray twisted his head to the side, cracking his neck with a loud _pop_.

Before Tony could make a snide remark (which was going to hilarious, by the way), the white-haired man withdrew a large folded piece of paper from his pocket. "Let's cut to the chase, Mr. Stark. You are going to make this for me." He extended the paper toward Tony, who looked at it in disgust.

"I don't like being handed things," he informed the man. "You can just put it on the ground."

The man in the tux raised an eyebrow, puzzlement clouding his eyes. Then he shrugged and bent down, placing the paper on the floor.

Tony reached down and grabbed the document, ready to skim through a ton of words, but he froze.

This was bad. This was _really_ bad.

The paper wasn't a document at all. It was a blueprint for an Iron Man suit.

Tony glared at the older man. "What the heck is _this,_ Santa?"

The white-haired man frowned and glanced down at his stomach, patting his belly. "I'm not that fat," he mumbled to himself. He turned to Ray. "Am I really that fat?"

"No, sir," Ray answered obediently.

Nodding to himself, the man turned back to face Tony. "There's no need for the Santa. You can call me . . ." he paused, a thoughtful look on his face. "Luke."

This time, it was Tony's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Luke," he repeated.

The man nodded, looking pleased with himself. "Yes."

Tony jerked his head in Ray's direction. "Does that make him Chewbacca?" When the other two simply stared at him uncomprehendingly, Tony muttered something incoherent under his breath. "Never mind," he said. "Getting back to the point, why do you want me to make an Iron Man suit?"

"Luke" shook his finger at the billionaire as if he was a first-grader who'd gotten two plus two wrong. "No, no, no. It's not an Iron Man suit. It's much _better _than yours."

Tony bristled at Luke's degrading comment but kept silent.

"And you don't need to know why I want it. I think, if everything I've heard about you is true, you can still make the suit without knowing the purpose it will serve," Luke said.

Tony was dumbfounded. Did the guy really think he was just going to do what he said? The dude hadn't even _threatened_ him yet. "Are you that stupid?"

Luke looked at him, his pale green eyes narrowed. "Hm?"

"I asked if you were stupid. I mean, I know Chewy is," he gestured vaguely in Ray's direction, "but I figured you, at least, were smarter than this. What makes you think I'll do _anything _for you?"

Ray glowered at the billionaire, his fists clenched. "Did you just call me 'Chewy'? Is that an insult?"

Luke held up a hand, stopping his henchman, his eyes still focused on Tony. "You're right. I suppose there is no reason for you to do what I say, Mr. Stark."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Please, _Luke_, call me Tony. I think we're past the formalities."

Luke laughed lightly. "I believe you're right. My apology. We passed the formalities quite a while ago." He sighed. "Look, Tony, I'm not pretending to be a great person, or even a remotely good one. However, I want you to know that I'm not heartless. I don't enjoy doing this . . . you've just forced my hand." He gazed straight into Tony's eyes, and Tony found the intensity of the stare somewhat unnerving. "I really didn't want to have to do this."

Tony didn't know why he suddenly felt so nervous. _Calm down. You've been tortured before. You can survive this._

Apparently, though, a beating wasn't what Luke had in mind. He held a hand to the microphone in his ear, saying, "Nick, bring him in."

The camouflaged door opened again, and another man entered the room. This one was shorter than the other two, and he was also lean and wiry.

But Tony wasn't paying any attention to him. He was focused on the smaller figure who came in with the man.

Steve's hands were bound behind him with duct tape, and blood matted his blonde hair, dripping down his cheek in thin rivulets. The man, Nick, was gripping one of the boy's arms tightly, preventing him from escaping. Steve's blue eyes met Tony's brown ones, the message in them clearly given: _I'm fine_.

And the kid did look okay, for the most part, but Tony couldn't get past the crimson liquid staining his face. Tony had seen blood before – it was part of the job description. Blood didn't bother him.

At least, it shouldn't. For some reason, the sight of this blood – Steve's blood – was unacceptable.

He moved to take a step forward, but Nick suddenly pulled out a dagger from his belt and held it against Steve's throat. Tony instantly froze, his insides doing flip-flops as he stared at the blade pressed against the kid's neck.

_The Avengers must be making you soft._ Luke's words floated through his head, and he realized, despondently, that they were true. He _was_ going soft, because seeing Steve's life in danger had never before filled him with so much rage.

Tony rounded on Luke, his dark eyes blazing with fury. "He's just a kid!" he hissed.

Luke shrugged, unperturbed. "All I know about him is that he's supposedly your son. And, even if that rumor proves to be false, you obviously care for him. You won't do anything too . . . rash with him around."

Tony's blood ran cold when he made eye contact with Luke. For all the man's careless attitude and claims to have a heart, it was apparent that he was willing to go to any lengths to accomplish this . . . whatever "this" was. And Steve was at his mercy. By default, so was Tony.

Which sucked.

"Now, Tony," Luke said, folding his hands in front of him, "I don't think I need to spell this out for you, but I will anyway. Do what I tell you to do, _exactly_ as I tell you to do it, and the child won't get hurt. Are we at an understanding?"

"Tony, don't!" Steve shouted. "Don't do it!"

Luke snapped his fingers, and Nick pressed the knife closer to Steve's neck, drawing a trickle of blood. The boy tensed, but his eyes were still defiant and locked onto Tony's.

"Okay, okay!" Tony said hastily. "Whatever you tell me to do. Got it."

Luke smiled, but his eyes were cold. "I'm glad you made the right decision, Tony." Then he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small remote. After he pushed a button, the wall-that-wasn't-a-wall opened again, and all four "guests" piled out of the room.

Then Tony was left alone in a room full of machinery.

The billionaire smiled, but no humor was found in his eyes. Luke didn't know who he was dealing with. But Tony was sure that he'd eventually figure it out.

Because no one messed with Tony's things and got away unscathed.


	9. Chapter 9

**. . . .**

**Er, yeah. You probably all hate me right now . . . IN MY DEFENSE, however, school is kind of time-consuming. So. Blame the school. Better yet, blame the whole process of education.**

**Um. On a totally, completely unrelated side note, I would like you all to have a moment of silence for Vincent Nigel-Murray. Yes, I realize he is a fictional character. No, I do not care.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own _The Avengers_, yada yada yada, I don't own Marvel, blah blah blah.**

* * *

Steve didn't know how long he and Tony had been kept here, wherever "here" was, but if he had to guess, he'd say about two days. That was assuming he'd been given one meal per day. It was kind of hard to keep track of time without windows. Or, you know, clocks.

He hadn't seen Tony since the first day, when Luke had given the billionaire the blueprints. And, as much as he hated to admit it, he didn't like being separated from the man. As irrational as it was, he felt safer around Tony. (He blamed his seven-year old tendencies for that.)

Even more disturbing than the fact that he felt lost without Tony was the fact that he was _scared._ He wasn't supposed to be _scared._ He was a superhero, for crying out loud. He could stand up to Fury without flinching, he could attack a supposed god without hesitating . . . but his mouth went dry whenever Luke stepped into his small, white cell.

The man could do whatever he wanted to Steve, and nothing would stop him.

It was his father all over again.

So far, though, Luke hadn't done anything but talk to him. He'd stroll into the room, while one of his many, _many _guards (Steve had lost count after Soldier #22) stood just outside the door, and would simply start a conversation with the boy. Calling them _conversations_, however, would be stretching it. They actually consisted of Luke talking at Steve, while the kid refused to make a sound. It never seemed to bother the man, because he would continue telling Steve all about his hometown (he'd lived five blocks away from a candy shop), his brothers (the oldest had become an architect), his personal life (he'd been married three different times), and his pets (Killer the hamster, Spot the goldfish, Jack the lizard, and Fluffy the vulture).

At least, it hadn't bothered Luke until today.

He stood in front of the boy, his sharp green eyes narrowed. Next to him stood his ever-present shadow, Ray. Luke's eyes swept over the small body perched on the edge of the bed before he said, "Now, let's talk about _you_. I feel like a terrible host – I haven't even gotten your name yet."

Steve said nothing.

Luke leaned in close to him, his nose less than an inch away from Steve's. He slowly lifted a hand up and twisted his fingers in the boy's blonde hair, then shoved his head back, as if studying his face. Growing more uneasy by the second, Steve tried to duck his head away, but Luke's other hand gripped his chin. "Now," Luke said, his hot breath washing over the boy's face, "I know Tony Stark is not your father. And I know you're not a normal seven-year old."

Steve forced his face to remain impassive, but he felt like his heart was about to pound out of his chest. He didn't like physical contact and avoided it whenever he could – he had his father to thank for that. Luke was destroying the very essence of his personal space. He wriggled out of the man's hold and quickly edged himself back toward the wall.

"Still not going to talk to me?" Luke frowned. "Fine." He rummaged in his pocket for something as he continued speaking. "I didn't come to talk, anyway." He pulled out a small, black, complicated-looking piece of machinery.

Steve eyed the contraption warily, wondering if it was some new kind of torture device. When Tony's panicked voice sounded from it, though, he figured it was some kind of updated walkie-talkie.

"No, stop, Luke! I won't do it again – just _leave_ the kid _alone._"

Luke made a small gesture with his hand, and suddenly Ray crossed the room and grabbed Steve's arm, yanking him off the bed. Steve squirmed and struggled against the man's hold, but he might as well have been whacking him with pillows for all the effect he had.

Luke sighed. "Tony, you knew there would be consequences to your actions. And you even knew what those consequences would be."

"Listen to me carefully," Tony's tinny, don't-mess-with-me-or-it-will-be-the-last-thing-you-ever-do voice said. "If you hurt him, _I will kill you_. You got that straight, Santa? _I will kill you_." He said it with a "two-plus-two" certainty, leaving no doubt in Steve's mind that he would make good on his threat.

Steve didn't know whether to be touched or horrified by that.

Luke completely ignored the billionaire and turned to face Steve. "Do you know what Tony did, boy?"

Steve stared Luke down, his poker face revealing nothing.

Luke shrugged. "I'll tell you anyway. Your _father_ -" Steve winced slightly, "-thought it would be a good idea to build a tracking device that could contact his super-computer. He thought I would be too stupid to realize what he was doing." Then he jerked his head forward a little.

Steve was so far behind on Luke's plan, he was in no way prepared for what happened next. Ray seized his left arm and twisted it up and over his head, wrenching it out of its socket with a loud _pop_. Fire flooded through his shoulder and down the length of his arm, and Steve screamed so loudly, he drowned out Tony's frantic shouts from the walkie-talkie.

He'd been hurt much, much worse than this. The soldier-part of his brain knew that. It knew that this should be nothing after everything he's been through. But the new part of his brain, the one that had appeared after he'd reverted to the age of seven, was much more black-and-white. All it knew was that it _hurt, _and it didn't want to hurt.

Steve tried to react calmly – as calmly as someone could after having their shoulder dislocated – but it was hard for him to _focus,_ and suddenly the thing he wanted most in the world was for someone to _stop the pain._

He finally tore himself away from his thoughts and realized with a start that his cheeks were wet with tears. His arm hung limply by his side, his fingers nearly able to reach his knees. Once he'd taken stock of his body parts, he focused on the furious voice coming from the walkie-talkie.

". . . the heck did you do?" Despite the anger coating Tony's words, Steve thought he caught a hint of panic hidden in them. "I told you not to hurt him!"

Through a haze of pain, Steve could see Luke smile coldly. "As I said before, Tony – your actions would have consequences."

Just before Tony let loose what Steve knew was going to be a string of curses, a low rumbling sound caught everyone's attention.

Luke looked toward the door, a frown creasing his face. The thundering grew louder and louder until it was shaking the walls of the room. Dust from the ceiling drifted down in large, smoky clumps, landing on Luke's head, dusting his white hair a light brown.

Then the sound of an explosion reverberated throughout the building.

The floor shook, nearly sending all three of the room's occupants to the ground. Steve's arm shrieked with pain as he fell against a wall in an attempt to remain upright. Then he heard a familiar sound that made him want to laugh in relief.

"HULK, SMASH!"

He wasn't the only one who'd heard it, however. Luke scowled, his bushy eyebrows drawn together as he faced Steve. "No," he muttered. "I'm not ready yet."

This time, Steve actually allowed himself to laugh, even though it made him want to howl in pain. "Doesn't matter," he said, a lopsided grin on his face. "The Avengers are here – you can't get away."

Another explosion rocked the building, this one succeeding in throwing Steve to the floor.

Luke's eyes were on the boy as he told his henchman, "Ray, leave us."

Ray shot his boss a look. "But Boss, I -"

"Leave," Luke hissed.

The bodyguard hastened to obey, and within seconds he was gone.

"You know," Luke said as he walked closer to Steve, "you're wrong." His hand fished in the pocket not containing the walkie-talkie. "I _can_ get away."

Steve tried to clamber to his feet, but another shockwave sent him sprawling. He bit back a cry as his arm was jostled roughly. Knowing his efforts to get back to a standing position were fruitless, he scooted himself backward until his back connected with the wall.

Luke crouched next to the boy, the distant sounds of screams and roars becoming louder as they grew closer. "I can get away, but not without your help." Then he withdrew a long, silver dagger from his pocket and pressed it, almost gently, against the side of Steve's face.

Steve craned his neck, trying to get his head as far away from the blade as possible, but Luke pressed it harder against his cheek, creating a thin line of blood.

"Let's see how far the Avengers are willing to go to catch me, hm?"

* * *

**A/N: So, first off, I do not apologize for Tony's somewhat OOCness. It's how I picture a protective Tony. Secondly, I _do_ apologize for the terrible portrayal of my bad guy. (See, this is why I do fanfiction. I'm no way NEAR creative enough to come up with my own people.) Thirdly, if you're reading this, thank you for sticking through my laziness and failure to update and everything else.**


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